Flout
by kateriya
Summary: Some rules are more easily broken than others, given sufficient incentive. A B/Y piece from Youji's perspective.


Flout  
by mei-chan  
Warnings: Shonen-ai  
Spoilers: none  
Pairing: Brad/Youji  
Disclaimer: Not mine. I'm just borrowing for a little fangirl obsessing; please be nice and don't sue a poor student.   
  
  
  
For some obscure reason, I let them continue to think I'm a lazy no-good bum who won't wake until the sun is almost at its zenith. After so long of having to boot me off the bed, they've finally given up. Well…Aya took longer to take the hint, but even he has stopped forcing me into morning shifts. Oh joy.  
  
So now my mornings are uninterrupted. Which gives me the freedom to spend them - and the whole night before - outside my own room. I look around me. This room has grown into a familiar sight this last few months. The sparse surroundings - a small table by the corner next to the bed, the modern energy-saving table lamp perched on top; the elegant spectacles placed almost exactly at the same spot on top of the table every night, light from the city nightlights coming in from the window to my left, reflecting off the lenses at an angle; the unadorned walls and ceiling, except for a sole painting hanging on the wall on my right, a spotlight bathing the expensive piece in yellow glow, setting off the vivid colours; the feel of the silk sheets on my naked skin, soft, warm, sexy. The warmer body next to mine, breathing gently in sleep.   
  
You'd think being who he is he'd be up and moving long before I would, but I doubt he has nightmares like I do. Bad dreams that keep me up, jerk me out of slumber every morning before dawn. So I'm up before he is, every morning taking in the same sights, every morning itching for the cigarettes in the left pocket of my discarded jeans humped in a heap on the floor, every morning suppressing the urge because I know he dislikes smoke in his room, and yet refuse to leave the bed and risk upsetting his rest. Every morning thinking the same thoughts, wondering how long it will last, every morning dreading the point in time when he'd wake, silently get up from the bed and put on his clothes, washing, shaving…then leaving. Dreading the click of the door that sounds so…final. Every morning.  
  
The light in the room shifts. Dawn. I expect him awake any moment now. Like always, I can feel the slight nuances of movement - even sleeping, the man is controlled. I almost know the exact moment he comes out of sleep. In the silence of the predawn, if I listen carefully, I can hear his breathing change. Slow, even, breaths, to a rhythm slightly quicker, gaining a little speed as he awakens and shakes off the arms of sleep, stretching a little. Over the months I found out, even though he is an early riser, wakefulness comes gradually to him. He's not one to jerk awake, but he wakes slowly, sensually, in a way that always makes me want to hold him and never let go. Suddenly the craving for tobacco grows too great, and I reach down over the side of the bed to retrieve my pants. Not bothering how they fall back down - they're already slightly crumpled anyway - I light up before he is fully awake. By the time he sits up, leaning against the headboard, shaking his head to clear his mind of sleep-induced haziness, the count was four smoke rings. I don't have to see his face to know the expression on it. He's never bugged me to quit, but he had mentioned a dislike of cigarette smoke. Especially -   
  
"I told you no smoking in the room."  
  
- in the room. His voice, usually sexy enough, is now husky with sleep. I wonder if he knows how seductive he sounds when he has just awakened. Another bluish-grey ring floats up to the ceiling. I lift my shoulder in a small shrug. "It won't kill you."  
  
Nicotine. Vital to my existence since I don't know when. A deep drag, feeling the kick all the way down into my lungs, savouring it. A side glance tells me what I already know. He is disorientated before his morning coffee. A situation I'd take instant advantage of - only I know how he gets if he feels his rules are flouted. The mattress shifts; he is getting off the bed slowly, heading into the attached bathroom. Another drag, and there goes my first stick of the day. I sit staring at the butt, vaguely registering the sounds of the shower running.  
  
Cold water. The man never changes his habits. It amuses one sardonic part of my brain that I think of the temperature of his shower water instead of what is coming next. But I already know; it happens unchanging every morning. Another thing I found out about him: he doesn't believe in wasting time. The water stops, and after a short pause he emerges from the bathroom, smelling of soap, shampoo and aftershave. And looking a lot more perked than he was just moments ago, semi-long bangs falling down the sides and framing his face slightly. Purposefully, he picks up clothing from the neat stack, dressing with precise movements. I can't help it, I stare. Always efficient, never wasting actions or seconds. He's a clotheshorse; golf polos and dress shirts look just as good on him as tight jeans and the slacks he's now pulling on. Then he looks up, locking stares. The amused smirk on his face isn't something usually seen.  
  
"Didn't anyone tell you it's rude to stare?"  
  
What can I say? So I just shrug. "Whatever."  
  
He stops in the middle of buttoning his shirt, and walks towards the bed, footsteps silenced by the carpeting. Without saying a word, he leans over and presses a kiss against my lips, one hand brushing an errant lock of my hair. Automatically my arms curl round his neck, pulling him in closer. His tongue brushes across my lips, and I part them to give him access. We taste each other slowly, tongues engaging in tender exchange. The difference in this kiss and the ones we usually share - not to mention the sudden deviation from what I'd known for a morning routine - is almost enough to unsettle my cognitive processes.  
  
Almost, because I notice the slight pause after he pulls away. It's been enough months for me to know it means he saw something…and judging by the small smile on his face, something beneficial to him. He leans forward again, brushing his lips across mine one more time, and straightens. Turning, he reaches over to grab his coat and tie, heading for the door to the room. Not that different after all, merely a small detour in the daily routine.  
  
"Why did you go to him?"  
  
I blink. I didn't expect such a question. Especially when it came from my own mouth, a question I now realize I wanted desperately to ask but had kept it silent. His hand, reaching for the knob, stops. Hovering in mid-air, it would look funny, if I am not suddenly tense. It's like time stopping. I wait for a minute, two, ten, I don't know; but he finally turns to face me, expression unreadable. I meet his gaze, lump in my throat, regretting the lack of control. The status quo had been just fine until that question popped out from my mouth. While I want more, I know what I have is no less than what anyone else will get from him. I open my mouth to say that he forget I ever asked the question, but before I manage to get a word out, he is suddenly sitting on the bed in front of me, pressing his mouth against mine in a rough bruising kiss, one hand pushing me back down into the mattress. I moan, desire surfacing…and just as suddenly he breaks the kiss, forehead against mine, eyes boring into my own. His usual blue is now darker with some emotion, but I barely have time to appreciate it before his next words. "Why did you let him touch you?"  
  
Confusion seems to be the order of the day. "Wha-"  
  
"Two weeks before I made you mine."  
  
Despite the mystery, I shiver slightly at the possession in his tone, while trying to remember. And it came: a gaijin, French I think he was. It was a one-night stand. I didn't even think anyone knew. "How-" His hand, raised, stops me. The questions die on my lips, and he moves to place his raised hand gently against my left cheek, forehead still resting on mine.  
  
"I watched you." His eyes are serious, expression still unreadable.  
  
He watched me? He knew - then it hit. A one-night lover, all that long ago…the world seems to be a better place suddenly.  
  
I smile, and hook my arms around his neck and shoulders. "I'm yours, Bradley. All yours." I brush his lips, a little stiff, but I plan to remedy that. "But I don't share well. If I'm yours, you're mine." He's really handsome when he smiles. While breaking his own rules, too.  
  
~owari~  
  
  
A/N: A huge thanks to Sena: Wouldn't have been able to do this without you hon. 


End file.
